


Into Vain Citadels

by Alvitr



Series: Strange Meeting [1]
Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Gilbert Norrell choosing people over books, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, World War I, air raids, in one extenuating circumstance anyway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-18
Updated: 2015-07-18
Packaged: 2018-04-09 23:07:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4367810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alvitr/pseuds/Alvitr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One hundred years after their capture in the Pillar of Darkness, Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell return to England. The year is 1917. A fill for the jsmn_kinkmeme.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Into Vain Citadels

**Author's Note:**

> Fulfills this prompt from the jsmn_kinkmeme:
> 
> "At the end of the book, Norrell mentions that the Pillar of Darkness might last as much as 100 years, which would mean that they would reemerge in England around 1917, right in the middle of World War I. What with Strange's wartime experiences already being an issue, not to mention whatever codependency issues they probably developed over a hundred years (one assumes for the sake of the story not ageing) together, I really want to see these two men returning to find England in the middle of a new and far more terrible war, made all the worse and more complicated by magicians on both sides. I would love to see this as an established relationship, and the only point of familiarity for them in the face of a world utterly changed."
> 
> This fic is a bit lazy I'm afraid in that it doesn't spend a lot of time in worldbuilding how the return of English magic has affected the last century because I knew I'd spend forever planning it rather than writing it if I tried to do that. It also takes place about eight months after Strange and Norrell have returned to England.

> _Courage was mine, and I had mystery;_
> 
> _Wisdom was mine, and I had mastery:_
> 
> _To miss the march of this retreating world_
> 
> _Into vain citadels that are not walled._
> 
> _Then, when much blood had clogged their chariot-wheels,_
> 
> _I would go up and wash them from sweet wells,_
> 
> _Even with truths that lie too deep for taint._

“Strange Meeting," Wilfred Owen (1893-1918)

 

**_19 October 1917_ **

 

Darkness had just fallen as Jonathan Strange emerged from the doors of Oxford Circus station. He crossed Regent Street and headed swiftly down the road in the direction of Hanover Square. Luckily he did not have far to go, for the streets were truly dark with no lights of any sort to guide his way. That was until he reached a very particular house[1], where he could see, dimly, a light in one window. He frowned and cursed, in a singularly ungentlemanly manner, and bounded up the stairs to the door.

 

“Gilbert!” he called as he entered the house. There was no answer. Sighing with irritation, he closed his eyes and held out his hands. Then, gently he lowered them. As he did, all of the black-out curtains on all of the windows of the house gradually lowered with them.

 

He took off his coat and hung his satchel up on the coat rack with it, and then climbed the stairs, taking them two at a time. He went straight to the library, where even had he not seen the light from the street he would have known to look for his infuriating companion.

 

“Gilbert,” he said again, and stopped in the doorway, for Norrell could not hear him; he had fallen asleep, slumped at his desk, an open book before him. Strange quietly made his way over to the desk and leaned over to look at the text Norrell had been reading.

 

 _The whole question of phenomena rests on the correct comprehension of old philosophies. Whither then should we turn in our perplexity but to the ancient sages since on the pretext of superstition we are refused an explanation by the modern?_ [2]

 

Strange shook his head and, turning his attention away from the book, rested a hand on Norrell’s shoulder. “Gilbert,” he said once more, shaking the other man gently.                 

 

He came awake with a start, and for a moment, it seemed to Strange that he did not know where he was. Then comprehension set in. “Jonathan,” he said, and looked around him. “What is the time? -- oh, the windows!”

 

“I have already done it,” Strange said simply, his annoyance having quickly fled. When one spends one hundred years in the constant presence of another, one generally comes to terms with their faults. “How goes your reading?”

 

“Oh,” Norrell said, frowning, and with a look of disgust, closed his book. “It’s all nonsense. I must say I quite despair at the progress English magic has made in our absence.”

 

“Well, I think they have done quite well,” Strange replied, settling down in a chair, “Particularly as nearly every single book written on the subject vanished quite out of the blue a century ago.”

 

Norrell made a face and muttered something about ridiculous modern turns of phrase.[3] This discussion – on the development of magic in their absence – was one they had engaged in numerous times over the course of the months since they had returned into England. Certainly great strides had been made, and yet it seemed that much had been hindered over the constant bickering between two factions of magicians: those who supported Jonathan Strange, and those who supported Gilbert Norrell. Now that they had returned, the magicians of England naturally turned to them to settle this dispute and come to sort of a consensus. And yet they could not. It was not that they disagreed with each other very much – indeed, both found it quite difficult to remember just why they had been so passionately opposed to each other in the first place – it was that they could not decide how best to go about things. As a matter of fact, Norrell found it almost impossible to even begin to consider such a weighty discussion until he had fully researched the magical history and practice of the years they had been away. One couldn’t plunge into such matters too rashly, after all. He received frequent letters from Norrellites asking him for counsel, and to each one he replied in the same vague fashion, that he would give them a more complete answer when he had finished evaluating all of the literature.

 

While Norrell busied himself in these affairs, Strange had spent the last half year rather differently. He had, in all respects, taken up almost nearly where he had left off, for much to his dismay upon arriving in England he had found that his country was again in the grip of terrible war -- this one worse than any he could have imagined. Despite the dread that filled him at the thought of battle, he could not sit back and do nothing. And so with great reluctance he had offered his services to the Ministry of War, and straight away had been put to work as a consultant on magic in combat, and now spent all of his days (and much of his nights as well) trying to teach a group of wild young magicians -- eager young Strangites the lot of them -- how to survive in battle. It was not at all how he had expected to spend his time upon gaining his freedom from the spell that had kept him prisoner for decades, but he would do it nonetheless.

 

Norrell however would have none of it. He had learned his lesson on mixing magic and politics and refused to have anything to do with it. He would bide his time and read and think and one day reestablish his place in the development of English magic, bringing to it all that he had learned during his years away. He had little to no interest in learning anything more about the peculiar time they were now living in. Indeed, unlike Strange, he had not bothered to even attempt to understand what had happened in the past century except as it pertained to magic.[4]

 

Now Strange sighed and leaned his head back, closing his eyes. Norrell looked at him. He was far too tired and thin-looking; after one hundred years of not growing a day older, it seemed he had aged tremendously in the eight months he had spent in the twentieth century. Norrell did not like it. He did not like it one bit. Nor did he like the modern clothes Strange dressed himself in now. They were so dark and shabby and dreary. He himself had made few concessions to the modern era, only trading in his wigs and breeches and stockings at Strange’s urging that if he did not want to cut a notorious figure, he should blend in as much as possible. Norrell had had as much of being a public figure as he had of interfering in politics, and so demurred.

 

He had not realized how long he had sat looking at the other man until Strange popped one eye open and smiled at him. “You are staring, Gilbert.”

 

Norrell frowned. At one time he would have stammered and blushed and looked away. Instead he said, “What of it?” He had been too long in the company of Jonathan Strange. His impertinence was quite contagious.

 

Strange’s smile only grew, which Norrell found pleasing, and so he continued to stare -- and then! Strange rose abruptly, cut the distance between them in a few rapid paces, leaned down, and pressed his lips against Norrell’s own.

 

This too was a consequence of an exceedingly long partnership.

 

They kissed for a long moment, and then Strange pulled away and said softly, “Shall we go to bed?”

 

Norrell was just about to reply when they heard it: the low, droning, wail of the air raid siren. They both looked pointedly at the window, the thick curtain making it impossible to tell what was happening outside. After a moment, Norrell looked back at Strange; he was frozen, face pale, mouth set in a tight line. “Jonathan,” he began to say, touching his sleeve, when Strange suddenly broke from his trance, turned, and fled the room, his shoulders set in a determined line.

 

“Jonathan!” he called, and followed after him. Strange had already reached the ground floor and was slinging his satchel over his shoulder. “Do not -- you _must_ stay in the house --” This place, at least, was more or less impenetrable. They’d seen to that. Unfortunately, Strange’s attempts to cast such spells on a grander scale across wide swaths of the city had proved too taxing, even with the help of many other magicians. It was one of the many projects he was continuously working on. But he certainly could not attempt it now, alone -- which could only mean -- “Jonathan! I forbid you to leave this house.”

 

Strange stopped at the door, his hand on the knob. “We are not chained together by magic any longer, Gilbert,” he said, in an even calm voice, raised only in order to be heard over the siren. “I may go where I please.” And he left, closing the door behind him.

 

Norrell stood on the staircase, frozen in indecision. To go outside would be foolish. It would put him in great danger. But to stay within while Strange was without, trying who knew what magical scheme was -- was -- the thought of it was unbearable. And yet … he thought of Strange’s parting words, and felt keenly the deep insecurity that crept over him nearly every night, when he often woke and found the bed empty, and heard Strange wandering noisily about in the rooms below. He knew that now without the spell to bind them there was not much holding them together. Why Strange remained in this house with him mystified him completely, for surely he could enjoy the company many others, far more congenial than Gilbert Norrell. Yet he could not bring himself to let go, either. Many times, when Strange’s obstinance and hard-headedness drove him to despair, he had reflected that he ought to pack up and retire to Yorkshire, and let Strange carry on with his foolish plans.

 

But he could not.

 

Nor could he allow Strange to endanger himself so now. With a great effort, ignoring the voice within which screamed at him to stop, he strode down the stairs, to the door, and stepped out into the night.

 

The sound of the sirens was deafening. And it was no longer completely dark outside; the sky was awash with signal lights, tracing great arcs across the rooftops. Norrell looked up and a creeping dread filled him. The zeppelin was passing directly over Hanover Square. 

 

He looked down and scoured the street. He saw Strange almost immediately: he was standing in the midst of the square, his satchel open at his feet, pouring through a book. Taking a deep breath to ready himself, Norrell ran towards him.

 

“Jonathan!” he hissed as he approached.

 

Strange’s shoulders stiffened. “Go back inside, Gilbert,” he said. “It is not safe out here.”

 

“Of course it isn’t, you damned fool,” Norrell said. “What in the devil do you intend to do?”

 

“Do?” Strange shouted, and he looked up at Norrell, his eyes blazing. “I’m going to pluck that zeppelin right out of the sky. That is what I intend to do!”

 

“And bring it down onto the city? Are you mad?”

 

Strange shook his head, and frantically flicked through the pages of the book. The zeppelin was gliding past them, like a great malevolent tortoise, heading south. “I’ll -- I’ll summon a wind and push it out of the city. Into a field -- no! Down the river and into the North Sea.”

 

“And how will you manage that? By yourself, with no one to aid you?”

 

Strange ignored him. He cursed the darkness and summoned a small light in his cupped hand and peered again at the book.

 

Norrell frowned, steeled himself, and grabbed at the book.

 

“Gilbert --” Strange hissed, pulling back, and then -- “ _Mr Norrell_ \-- cease this at once!” They fought over it for a moment, like two great children, but Strange was the stronger, and he won at last, pulling the book back.

 

They rose their voices to begin to argue again, but there was no time, for just then, there was a tremendous flash of light, followed by colossal booming noise that seemed to go on and on; and a great, howling wind buffeted them.

 

Norrell’s ears were ringing. He hunched over, his eyes tightly shut, and cursed this century. He was heartily tired of it. He was tired of war; he was tired of bombs; he was tired of zeppelins; he was tired of loud motorcars, buzzing electric lights, shrill telephones, food shortages, cheaply made books that stunk of glue, and ghastly fountain pens that leaked ink everywhere. He was tired of it all. He cursed the Pillar of Darkness for bringing them here; and at the same time, he wished they had never left it.

 

At last, he looked up. Less than a mile south of them, the sky was ablaze.[5] He turned to Strange, and his heart leapt to his throat. The other magician was still bent over, his hands clamped over his ears, books forgotten on the ground. When Norrell turned to look at him, he saw that Strange’s face was frozen in a rictus of terror, his eyes wide, his skin ghastly pale. He was trembling violently. “Jonathan!” he called, but he could barely hear his own voice over the ringing in his ears. He tugged at Strange’s arm and met resistance. “Jonathan, please.” Strange could not hear him, and it was not because of the bomb. He was many miles and years away, on a warm, wet Mediterranean afternoon, covered in mud and filled with the certainty that he was about to die. But Norrell could not know that. Strange had never spoken of the war much to him.

 

Norrell touched Strange’s face. It was cold and clammy. He saw that Strange’s mouth was moving -- he thought soundlessly, though it was difficult to ascertain. He wished, and not for the first time, that Childermass were here.[6] He did not know the best course of action. At last, he forced Strange’s arm around his shoulder and pulled at him. As though he were a puppet with the strings cut, Strange’s suddenly slumped, leaning against Norrell heavily. Norrell staggered under the weight, then righted himself, gritting his teeth as he did so. He glanced at the pile of discarded books in the dirt and for a moment was torn. It was quite a long moment, but Strange won out nonetheless. He’d -- he’d get them later. They would be all right. Surely?[7]

 

Awkwardly, he guided Strange down the street and back towards the house. His hearing seemed to be returning somewhat. He could hear the sirens better now, as well as shouting and the sounds of cars. As the two hobbled along, a group of special constables passed by in a great hurry, heading towards the bombing. “Get to shelter!” one of them called at them, and then, noticing Strange’s state, stopped and asked if they needed assistance.

 

Norrell very much felt like he did need assistance, but shooed the man away. They were nearly to the house, and Strange seemed to be coming back to himself; Norrell had to put less effort into dragging him along, and his heavy, labored panting had a sound of purpose, as though he were getting his breath back. With difficulty, Norrell opened the door to the house and maneuvered them inside, then guided Strange over to a settee in the sitting room and dropped him down onto it, following suit.

 

They sat there next to each other, catching their breath, for some time. Eventually Norrell rose, disappeared into another room, and returned with a wash basin and cloth. He dampened the cloth and dapped it against Strange’s face until he began to regain some color. In the distance, Norrell thought he could hear the all clear being sounded.

 

“I am sorry, Gilbert,” Strange said at last. His voice was a little hoarse.

 

Norrell set the wash basin aside. “Are you recovered?”

 

Strange looked about the room, then closed his eyes. “Somewhat.”

 

Norrell wrung his hands. He had reached the limit of his knowledge of how to care for someone in distress. He tried to remember what Childermass would do when he was unwell, and all he could think of was to make a cup of tea and put him to bed. However, the powdered milk that was all that was available to them was so unappealing that Norrell could not imagine it would bring comfort to anyone.

 

Luckily, Strange spoke up before Norrell could worry himself further. “Gilbert? Could you read to me for a while?”

 

Norrell blinked in startlement. “Of course, Jonathan,” he said. “What would you like me to read?” He hoped not the newspaper. Strange sometimes read it aloud to him, insisting he ought to know something of the goings on of the world they lived in now, but it was filled with dreadful tales, dreary statistics, and silly notices of people renouncing their German surnames and taking on patriotic English ones.

 

“Nothing of the war,” Strange said. His eyes were still shut. “Or of magic.” He gestured blindly. “There is a book in here somewhere. I was reading it last evening.”

 

Norrell looked about and soon found the book in question, lying face down (how he disliked that!) on a table by the window. It was a modern book, with a plain red cloth binding, and Strange had not read more than a quarter of it. Opening it up to Strange’s place, Norrell saw with dismay that it was a _novel_. How distasteful. He nearly protested, but when he looked at Strange and his pale wan face he thought the better of it. He sat down next to him and, hesitantly, began to read.

 

As Norrell began to read, Strange seemed to relax. Norrell was not certain he was precisely listening, but it seemed that just the sound of Norrell’s voice, quietly following the patterns of another’s words, was doing him some good. A warm feeling, almost a glow, settled in Norrell’s chest. Well, he thought, he supposed it was no great difficulty to read objectionable literature, if it made Strange happy.

 

“ _Looking back on the past six months,_ ” Norrell read, with a little new enthusiasm, “ _Margaret realised the chaotic nature of our daily life, and its difference from the orderly sequence that has been fabricated --_ ” Here he paused quite suddenly, for Strange had reached out, without a word, and taken his right hand from where it lay resting on his thigh. Norrell momentarily lost his place on the page, then quickly found it again and gently squeezed Strange’s hand back before he continued. “... _that has been fabricated by historians. Actual life is full of false clues and sign-posts that lead nowhere. With infinite effort we nerve ourselves for a crisis that never comes. The most successful career must show a waste of strength that might have removed mountains, and the most unsuccessful is not that of the man who is taken unprepared, but of him who has prepared and is never taken._ ” He turned the page, and Strange pushed himself up from the back of the sofa and leaned against him, looking over his shoulder at the book so that he too could read along.

 

“ _On a tragedy of that kind our national morality is duly silent. It assumes that preparation of danger is in itself a good, and that men, like nations, are the better for staggering through life fully armed. The tragedy of preparedness has scarcely been handled, save by the Greeks. Life is indeed dangerous, but not in the way morality would have us believe. It is indeed unmanageable, but the essence of it is not a battle. It is unmanageable because it is a romance, and its essence is romantic beauty._ ”[8]

 

This last line Strange read aloud with him, and the sound of his voice in concert with his own made Norrell feel strangely light-headed. Nevertheless he put the book down and shook his head. “What dreadful sentimental nonsense.”

 

“Indeed,” Strange said, and kissed him. They both thought simultaneously of what they had been about before the air raid had begun. Strange stood and held out his hand, which Norrell took and rose himself. “Shall we go to bed?” Strange said, for the second time that evening, and Norrell at last had the opportunity to say yes.

 

[1] The house, which had reappeared, along with Strange’s house in Soho Square, Hurtfew Abbey in Yorkshire, and Ashfair in Shropshire, very suddenly on the evening 18 February 1917, was somewhat anachronistic in its surroundings now, for Hanover Square had changed greatly over the intervening century. Despite the best efforts of many of London’s architects and engineers, the spot where the house, or indeed any of the houses, had once stood had remained resolutely empty all through the years, waiting to once again be occupied by its mysterious owners. Indeed, on the many occasions when anyone had attempted to build something else on the properties, any work which took place mysteriously disappeared overnight until the attempt was given up as pointless.

[2] Madame Blavatzky, _Isis Unveiled: A Master-key to the Mysteries of Ancient and Modern Science and Theology_. J.W. Bouton, 1892.

[3] The earliest attested usage of the phrase “out of the blue” first appeared in 1837, in Thomas Carlyle’s _The French Revolution_ , and so for Mr. Norrell it was indeed an outlandish and inscrutable idiom. Mr. Strange, however, had a particular delight in learning and incorporating all manner of new ways of speaking into his vocabulary.

[4] If one were to ask Gilbert Norrell the years of Queen Victoria’s reign, or when the first trains had run in Britain, or how many women Jack the Ripper had slain, he would have stared back blankly. But he could have told you that Victoria had attempted to contact the spirit of her husband, that he had some ideas for relieving the smog and congestion created by the railways, and that those murders had almost certainly been carried out by a magician.

[5] The zeppelin had in fact bombed Piccadilly Circus, killing seven. It further went on to bomb Albany Road in Southwark and Glenview Road in Lewisham, killing thirty-three people in total. It was the last time a zeppelin bombed London; thereafter, bombing was done mainly by Gotha aircrafts. [A map of WWI zeppelin raids in London can be seen here](http://londonist.com/2010/07/wwi_airship_attacks_on_london_mappe.php).

[6] Childermass had, of course, died many years ago. Norrell had gone to see his tomb, a very respectable structure in Abney Park Cemetery in London. He found it very impertinent indeed of his late servant that he should die before his master, even if magic had been involved. Strange had of course gone to Shropshire to visit his wife’s grave as well. Norrell had not accompanied him, and Strange had been very quiet for days upon his return. Not knowing what to say to him, Norrell had said nothing, and they had never spoken of it since.

[7] In fact, Norrell did not remember to go retrieve the books until very late that night, or rather, the next morning, when he woke suddenly with the image of them lying forgotten in the dirt in his mind. In a great rush he ran out into the night to retrieve them, and found them more or less unharmed, if perhaps a little sooty. Of this we can only say that there were really only two things that would inspire Gilbert Norrell to go roaming about the streets in the darkness; one was the fear that someone would steal his books, and the other was Jonathan Strange.

[8] E. M. Forster, _Howards End_. Edward Arnold Publishers, London, 1910.


End file.
